The Hugging Chair

I was recently reminded of the day my dad left this world for his next great adventure.

On August 19, 2005 all eight of the Woods kids received the dreaded call - the kind that ends with "you probably should get out here as soon as possible".

Thus began a mass exodus from our various homes across the country to a small hospital in Boulder City, NV.

I booked a flight from Minneapolis, packed a bag in record time - foregoing any idiotic notions to iron stuff, and in just a couple of hours was on my way to Las Vegas McCarran airport.  I was met by another sister who had driven there and was able to pick me up.

My first memory when arriving at the hospital was meeting my mom near the nurses station.

We hugged and she spoke in her strong and stoic way of "handling things" - telling me that dad was unresponsive.

The very next thing she said to me was that the doctor told her that dad would not be aware that we were here. 

My first thought - and first words to her were - "Bullshit - of course he knows we're here."

My next thought was that if he doesn't know we're here at the moment - he will by the time everyone shows up! 

I thought it odd and it made me wonder why the doctor would tell her something like that.  In retrospect - maybe she needed to hear someone assure her that the doctor was wrong. 

Even though I'd seen him recently and knew how several years of illness had changed him physically - it was still a shock to see my dad.

The imposing 6' 2" dad that I grew up with - was now merely a tiny shell of himself - his breathing shallow and labored under an oxygen mask.  I was stunned at the transformation that accompanies the death of the physical body.

It didn't take long for the room to fill up with weary travelers - hearts heavy with the understanding of the obvious.  My memory - more of an impression really - is that we all seemed to try and check our heavy hearts at the door.  When grief took hold - we would leave the room and walk the halls.

Sometimes it just seemed right to be quiet and still.  Other times we held his hand, talked to him, laughed when quipping about a silly memory, and constantly told him how much he was loved. 

Then an amazing thing happened!  As my mom was sitting in the chair next to head of his hospital bed - without opening his eyes - he outstretched his arms and tried to sit up.  It surprised us all and my mom jumped up to help him lay back down.

I told her that it looked like he wanted to give her a hug - and she quickly and gently slipped in between his arms.  

He then lay back down and we all stood there overwhelmed and grateful to have witnessed that wonderful demonstration of love.

We understood the strength that he had to muster to do what he had just done.

Later on - he again lifted his arms and the person sitting by him slipped in for a hug...thus the spot by the head of his bed became known as the "hugging chair".

In between hugs it was like he was re-charging to get the strength to do it again.  We all knew the significance on his special gift of good-bye hugs!

....He didn't know we were there?   BS!

To dear Lisa - who said farewell last week to her 97-year-old Grandpa Malone...

...he knew you and baby Lindy were there...